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GEORGE LUCAS

"What is it?" I asked, eying the large pile of dry brown plant
matter uneasily.

"One can't say for sure," George muttered, scooping up a handful and
dropping it into his mouth, "I came upon it while tilling the fields.
It's true origins remain shrouded in darkness." He sputtered, swallowing.

I picked up a handful and began to chew. The stuff was absolutely
foul, and had a texture like dry bark. Grimacing, I choked it down, and
sat wondering what I had gotten myself into. It wasn’t long before I
started to feel it coming on. I felt slightly disconnected and an
almost imperceptible warmth and weightlessness crept into my limbs. I
laughed a little and said something like, “Mmmmmmm.”

George stood and looked around. He flexed, grinning and widening his
eyes.

We
pulled into the lot and George swung the car into a handicapped space.
I furrowed my brow and peered at the blue sign through the cracked windshield.

“As far as I know,” I said, “You aren’t a handicap.”

“This
is justice.” He said, pushing the car door open with his knee. “Why
should a cripple get a free ride? Let him put on a stained white work
shirt. Let him push despair into the pit of his belly and smile at the
customers. I say put down the crutch and pick up a shovel; There’s work
to be done.”

I had been standing under the buzzing streetlamp in the red light
district for only a few minutes when I heard the scrape of approaching
footsteps. I turned around to find myself staring into the battered
face of George Lucas.

“Hhhhhhhelllo pal…” he spat, showering my face with flecks of blood and spit.

I stumbled backwards a few steps, nearly blacking out from the stench of cheap fortified wine.